


Olives

by mysticferret



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:23:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mysticferret/pseuds/mysticferret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Olives always reminded him of his mother.</p><p>---</p><p>Greece reflects on his mother and olives. Pretty simple.</p><p>Also I used his human name (Heracles), so... uh... warning for that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olives

                If the sun were the father of all life, then surely the fruits of the natural flora were the love-children of the warm light above and the sturdy earth beneath his feet. Heracles felt that this had to be the truth as he popped another fresh, green olive into his mouth. The tiny green globe burst in a wave of mixed flavors as he chewed: the flesh of the unripened fruit was bitter, yet having been soaked in brine it also had a distinct, salty bite against his tongue. With these two clashing forces of taste, Heracles had always imagined, ever since the first time he had eaten one, that he could also taste the hearty earth it had grown from, the soothing rain the plant had sipped over many centuries, the light and strength it absorbed from the sun.

                Olives always reminded him of his mother. Those memories were distant; after all, he had been but a child when she passed away. He hardly knew anything about the world and its complex mysteries. Yet one of the most vivid memories of his mother took place on a warm, sunny day long ago, trotting barefoot behind her in an olive grove. The ground was dusty beneath his feet, but the trees themselves were thriving, so there had to have been enough rain for them, he concluded.

                Walking purposefully ahead of him, Heracles' mother was gathering the tiny globes from the branches, inspecting them closely in her fingers and then dropping them into her basket. Every now and then he would hear her murmur softly, or hum to herself. If they had been separated in the grove, Heracles only had to strain his ears for footsteps or the soft sound of her voice. When he caught up to her, she would merely crane her head back to meet his gaze, graceful as a swan.

                “Please keep up, Heracles,” she would gently say, a smooth smile gracing her lips.

                It would be some time later when they would get a chance to eat those olives, given they needed to be cured before being eaten, but it was quite the treat when they did. The two of them would go wandering, searching for the shadiest, most comfortable tree to sit beneath; once that was found, Heracles would excitedly await to be given the small green fruit, and he and his mother would eat them as if they were the sweetest of candy.

                “Did you know,” his mother told him once, gently combing his curly mane, “that olive trees are sacred? The gods themselves treasure its branches and fruit.”

                Heracles shook his head, looking back at his mother. Statements like this inevitably involved a story, and he was so fond of his mother's stories...

                “Yes, the goddess Athena in particular favors olive trees. It was because of them that she was able to win the city of Athens from Poseidon. Why else do you think we harvest so many olives, and use them and its tree in so many ways? The goddess Athena blessed us with the olive tree, wouldn't you say?”

                His mother was a beautiful, wondrous woman... Although her memory was faint, it still surfaced a deep affection in Heracles' heart. More often than not, he was tempted to eat twice the amount of olives he usually had, just to honor her memory.


End file.
